History (Verivala)
Verivala began, not intentionally, with Octja. A long series of events in her life had amounted to the little fae crouching beneath a patch of thorny twigs intermingled with thick, hard tendrils, and waiting for the telltale screeching and bickering of a passing flock of Talonok. It must have been her third or fouth day wandering the Wasteland, and she was alone, afraid, and had nothing but a crude, sharpened bone as a weapon. It was under this patch of brambles and fleshy tendrils that Octja met Aubin. She was puzzled at first by the Raptorik warrior that perched on his head, but quickly forgot about it when Aubin offered her something to eat. He was a travelling merchant, he'd explained, as if the pouches slung over his torso full of jingling gold and various trinkets didn't give it away. He'd asked if Octja wanted to accompany him for a while until she'd gotten her bearings a little better, and she'd quickly agreed. Though they never said it, there was a mutual agreement between them, to survive together until they found somewhere permanent to stay. Abaddon was the third to join their little crew. The mirror had stumbled into Octja and Aubin's small temporary cave one stormy afternoon, her wings ripped and torn, and hide battle-scarred and bleeding. Octja, always too caring for her own good, helped her as much as she could, much to Aubin's dislike. The two mirrors regarded each other warily for those first few weeks, though it wasn't long before they clicked. They were two loners with pack instincts, after all. They mightn't have had a pack, or a home, but Octja was content to travel with her new-found friends for the time being. All good things come to an end, however. Azazel crashed his way into Octja's life with the dramatic flair that he always carried with him. It had been a few months since meeting her friends, and by now, the little cave that Octja had come to call home was sectioned off and carefully guarded. She came home after one afternoon of gathering nearby acorns to find the strange skydancer tentatively picking his way around her lair. She'd snapped at him, flaring in anger and screeching curses at the would-be thief. Irritatingly, the skydancer ignored her warnings and bared his teeth in a menacing grin, adjusting the rattling, makeshift crown of bones upon his head. "No, no. I think I like it here," he'd said smoothly, before settling himself down by the entry. Octja wasn't even a quarter of his size, so all she could do was beg and threaten him until the mirror's returned from their hunting trip. Aubin and Abaddon were back before long. They'd snarled and circled the newcomer, spitting threats at him and rearing to fight. Azazel had proposed a compromise; they fight. If they win, he leaves. If not, he stays. They were weak, both Octja and Azazel knew that. They hadn't eaten properly in days, and supplies were stretched thin - though Octja knew that Aubin wouldn't give up his home and belongings without putting up a fight. The scrap ended swiftly. Azazel delicately manoeuvred thorough the air with little effort. The skydancer knew how to fight. He was adorned with bloodstained armour that was scuffed with battle marks - it wasn't his first and surely wouldn't be the last. It was over in minutes, with Abaddon pinned to the floor, one of Azazel's claws poised to slit her throat. "Looks like I stay," he grinned, inches from Abaddon's face. The mirror hissed, but he let her go and they kept their promise. Azazel stayed. It wasn't long before he became the self-proclaimed Lord of the clan. The others didn't argue; it was exhausting to put up a fight with him, and they knew he would come out on top. He always did. Azazel did surprise Octja, however, when he approached her and requested that she be the clan's Scribe. Second in command, and second rightful leader of the clan, he had explained. Reluctantly, she agreed. At least this way she could keep an eye on the slippery new leader, if anything. From there, Azazel had recruited other dragonkind into his - their, he always insisted - lair. He had a knack for convincing lost wanderers to come with him, to take shelter from the harsh climate of the Wasteland. Despite his past, Azazel was effective and always held his word. The lair grew and improved, but Azazel never stopped working. He went out himself to fight, and protected the clan with his life, and keeps it functioning in day-to-day life.